


race you to the sky

by doomteacosy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Jo Harvelle POV, Missing Scene, Women of Supernatural, if you squint you can ship it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomteacosy/pseuds/doomteacosy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stupid apocalypse.” She muttered to the empty room, playing her mouth over the lips of the bottle. Somewhere behind her there was the clomp, clomp, clomp of the overly-masculine boots of someone trying to make up for something. (And, yes, she was just… what? Annoyed that he had tried the last-night-on-Earth speech on her. And she would totally steal them if they were her size.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	race you to the sky

**Author's Note:**

> In which Jo and Dean talk the night before the big fight in Abandon All Hope.
> 
> This was written waaay back when the episode aired. Making it, technically, the oldest fic I've posted on here. I really need to stop posting fic that I wrote years before. And yet...
> 
> Title came from a Katie Herzig song I was listening to, I think.

There was a stack of boxes in the corner. Old, dust-covered, and hastily labeled ("Karen," "living room," "Karen," "photos"). Boxes that Bobby would probably never open again.

And that Jo would probably never see again.

She shook her head and took another swig of beer, veering away from that thought. It was the wrong line of thoughts for that night. The wrong line of thoughts for any night for any hunter.

The boxes continued to stare at her and somewhere in the back of her head she could almost hear Ash egging her on to look in them. He was always nosy like that.

She leaned back, toes curling on the edge of the coffee table and head pillowed on the back of the sofa, and looked in a direction decidedly different than that of the boxes.

Of course, the ceiling wasn’t nearly as interesting as it should be.

Which was probably because she wasn’t nearly as drunk as she should be. Or, at least, she wasn’t nearly as drunk as she wanted to be.

Because tomorrow was the Big Battle.

And hangovers sucked.

And Jo was a semi-responsible person… for whatever reason.

“Stupid apocalypse.” She muttered to the empty room, playing her mouth over the lips of the bottle. Somewhere behind her there was the clomp, clomp, clomp of the overly-masculine boots of someone trying to make up for something. (And, yes, she was just… what? Annoyed that he had tried the last-night-on-Earth speech on her? And she would totally steal them if they were her size.)

The footsteps came to a stop behind her.

“Bobby owns a couch?”

She snorted and dipped her head back.

“Apparently. A damn comfortable one, too. The man is just full of surprises.” She tilted her head up and watched Dean round the couch. “Are you still in your boots?”

He grunted in response and dropped down beside her. She turned her attention back to the ceiling.

“Do you sleep in them?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

She rolled her head back in his direction and gave him one of the looks she had learned from her mom.

“First off, I like my boots. Second, why would I not be wearing them? I’m not going to just wander around Bobby’s basement in my socks.” He shot her a sidelong glance, “And, hey, at least I don’t have my bare feet all over Bobby’s table.”

Jo pursed her lips. And made a mental note that Dean Winchester did indeed sleep in his boots.

“Mmm, right. I’m trying to feel bad about that. Really.”

She scooted her feet back a bit anyway, but, considering its place in his basement, Jo doubted her feet on the table and would make a difference.

“As well you should.”

She rolled her eyes and brought the bottle to her lips again. “So, what brought you to this wonderful corner of Bobby’s basement?”

“Probably the same reason you’re down here boozing it up with some dusty boxes and a couch that’s older than you are.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Who could on a night like this?”

“Well, I’m not sure about you, but I can hear Bobby snoring from here.”

He snorted, “Yeah, you’ve got me there.”

“So, planning on raiding Bobby’s basement for booze and blackmail? Because I’ve already called dibs.”

He tilted his head, as if he hadn’t considered that yet. “Nah. Was looking for your mom, actually.”

“Ew. Gonna give her the Last-Night-on-Earth speech, too?” Jo said, the words falling out of her mouth before she could think not to say them and hanging in the space between her and Dean.

He didn’t look at her, just scuffed his boot on the floor. Finally he turned and smiled his ‘I’m Dean Winchester and everyone loves me’ smile, “Wasn’t planning to, but now that you mention it—”

This time it was her turn to laugh. She gave him an exasperated look, which he returned with a wink.

Jo shifted as they fell into another short and less-than-easy silence, bringing her legs underneath her and curling her toes into lumpy sofa.

“Where’s the old ball and chain?” She said casually—too casually. She didn’t say the next part. Didn’t add the bit where she knew he had better people to talk to if this was going to be his last night.

“My what now?”

She smirked at him. She wanted to tell him that she was, of course, talking about the impala. Or sarcastically remark that Sam  _was_  his everything.

Instead she looked down at the bottle in her hand.

It was his turn to narrow his eyes. “Asleep.”

She turned her head to look at him—really look at him—for the first time since he sat down. Possibly for the first time that night. He looked tired, and not just in the battle-weary way that all hunters looked. No. It was bone-deep and sat ragged on his face.

She did her best to show him a smile.

“Your friend in there’s a bucket of laughs, by the way.”

“I’m honestly not sure whether that was sarcasm or not.”

She paused and considered. “Yeah, me either.”

He smiled again. It was a begrudging, but almost sincere smile. The most sincere she thought she’d seen that night. “Cas does have that effect, I guess.”

She hummed in agreement and ran a hand through her hair. Her eyes wandered back to the ceiling.

“So, tomorrow... Lucifer.” She rolled the name off her tongue, let it linger. There was  _almost_  a novelty to it. “That’s just fucking weird.”

Dean laughed at that. A deep laugh that Jo thought said  _Oh, believe me, I’ve already thought long and hard about that one_.

Sometimes she forgot how screwed up the Winchester’s lives were. Sometimes she forgot how screwed up _her_ life was.

“I never used to believe in the devil. Angels, either.” She paused. “Though he is an angel, so… whatever.”

He grunted, like he’s had this conversation before, but she went on anyway.

“Never gave it much thought, really. Monsters? Sure, they’re real. I mean I grew with up with them. But we weren’t really religious.” She paused, staring down at the now-empty bottle in her hands. “I think my dad may have been. More so than mom, at least.”

They sat in silence for a moment, thoughts Jo didn’t want rolling through her head like so many loose marbles. Funny how your brain sometimes just goes ahead on its own little journeys, picking up every little thing you didn’t want it to and following it to the next one.

Finally Dean shifted, “Listen, Jo… This is a suicide mission. You don’t…”

This time _she_ sent him a crooked grin. “Aw, Dean, don’t you worry your pretty little self. I’ve got  _no_  intention of dying for you.”

For a moment she wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He just sat there, his eyes locked on hers. Finally he looked away and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Yeah, alright.”

She punched his arm (something she would no doubt blame on the alcohol later) and they settled into another silence.

 

Jo woke to the feel of a wooden armrest digging into her face and the sound of Dean’s even breathing beside her. His arms were crossed over him with his chin rested on his chest as he slept on his side of the couch.

She huffed a quiet laugh.  Apparently she was fated to sleep with him one way or another tonight.

Her eyes wandered to the boxes again and she crept across the room. Her hand ran along the side of one box with a sad smile before she turned away from them. They weren’t her memories.

The blanket, however, was fair game. Dusty, kind-of-scratchy fair game. She took it back to Dean and draped it over him.

Would she die for him?

She didn’t want to die for anyone, didn’t want to die at all. But she definitely wouldn’t die for him. He had enough souls he thought were bearing him down, enough blood he thought was on his hands. She didn’t want to be another on Dean Winchester’s list of dead. It wasn’t fair to either of them.

If Jo were to die tomorrow, it would be for the mission. And she was going to fight like hell before that happened.

(And she would damn well come back and kick his ass if he made her death about him if she did.)

It felt odd, seeing him so peaceful. Not laughing off his problems, or playing merciless flirt. He wasn’t as weary as he was when he was awake. She could still see the lines creasing his face, though, and there was something about the twist of his lips that gave him away even in sleep.

She wondered if she would look like that one day. Feel like that.

There was a pair of boots still on Dean Winchester’s feet. Any other night she would have stolen them right off him. Instead she leaned down and placed a kiss on his cheek. “ _Idiot._ ”

You would have to be pretty fucked up to sleep on a night like this. Maybe she wasn’t there yet.

Jo straightened and went to the stairs. Tried not to think of Lucifer or demons ( _like the ones that killed her dad and his dad and Ash and so many other damned hunters_ ) or whatever-the-fuck-else was out there. Tried not to think about how they could all be dead tomorrow.

She needed another beer.


End file.
